The Last Ingredient
by Starwind77
Summary: With only one ingredient left to create the homunculus, Georik must search inside himself for the truth of his desires…and the darkness that awaits him in Mephistopheles’ arms.


**Title:** The Last Ingredient  
**Rating:** R for semi-explicit sexual situations  
**Pairing:** Georik x Germant, Mephistopheles x Georik  
**Word Count:** 2,090  
**Description:** With only one ingredient left to create the homunculus, Georik must search inside himself for the truth of his desires…and the darkness that awaits him in Mephistopheles' arms.  
**Author's Note:** Anyone who's played the Soup of Life chapter knows what I'm talking about by the title alone smirk I wanted to indulge in my favorite OTP angst without sacrificing the delectableness of demonic seduction, which is why you get this lust triangle of sorts. As they say, the more, the merrier.

The Zaberisk mansion basement was chill, dark, unbearably silent – with the smell of dried blood permeating the air like sawdust, it seemed in these dead nights more a charnel house than the beloved home of his Kamazene youth. Georik pressed a palm to his forehead, trying to quell the ache that had settled into it. He could not afford to lose a moment's research if this plan of his was to succeed. After weeks of preparation, diligent study, and the help of his servant boy, Timothy, he was finally ready to create the homunculus.

Inspecting each and every one of his ingredients carefully – the Chalice, stolen from the royal treasury, the horse dung, taken from Rabikan's stable, the consecrated water and herbs gathered in the Forest of Grief – he came at last to the final bottle, the one which still stood empty with its label unattached. Human seed.

A dry chuckle escaped Georik's lips. "To think I left the easiest item till last…"

Checking once more to see that the door to the study was locked (and Timothy was not outside, eavesdropping), he unbuckled his belt and slid his undergarments down to his knees. The glass bottle felt cool, settled between his thighs, and Georik did his best to remain clinical as he began to slowly stroke his manhood.

"Hey, Georik!" The cheerful, boyish voice that piped up from beyond the door caused him to grind to a grating halt. "I, uh…I think I left the athanor on in there. Could you turn it off?"

"Timothy!"

"Sorry, sorry! I know you're concentrating _hard_." A snicker followed that last statement.

"Did I not order you to go upstairs?"

"Well…there's all these sheets that need cleaning down here…" Timothy suddenly took an exorbitant interest in the feather duster, looking for any excuse to hang around and spy.

"Leave it!" Georik growled. Was it too much to ask for a moment's peace? "I won't have you rifling through my medical supplies. Make yourself useful and fetch a bowl of water from the kitchen for the homunculus."

"…Okay," the other muttered, subdued, then gave a sly pause. "Sure you don't need help?"

The book Georik threw at the door was probably an unnecessary addendum, but nevertheless, he thought he could hear laughter echoing all the way up the stone steps.

"Ludicrous," he muttered, color flushing his cheeks. These distractions were stealing away Lilith's precious time. Settling down again, he returned determinedly to the task at hand (so to speak – curse Timothy for his innuendo), long raven hair stuck to the sides of his cheek as a single droplet of sweat trickled down from the exertion. It was but a few minutes before the muscles in his thighs began to burn and his sword arm ached, gliding faster and faster over warm skin…so fast…taut…he could taste the climax on his lips…

…And yet, for all that he tried, it would not – he could not get his seed to spill forth.

"To the Devil with this!" Georik gasped, chest heaving, as he slammed his fist into the tabletop. Every fiber of his body screamed for a release that would not come. "Why must the simplest things suddenly become so difficult…"

"Art thou in need of my aid, Master?"

A shiver of crimson and black materialized by his side, long nails clicking.

"Mephistopheles." The devil merely laughed at the distaste in Georik's voice. "This is your doing?!"

"I only come where I am bidden."

"Then, get thee hence. I did not call for your presence."

Nevertheless, the other smirked and glided closer, a rare quirk of amusement upon his cold lips. He looked Georik up and down hungrily. "Thy research seems to have struck a…particular snag," the devil observed with the faintest of irony.

"None of your concern," Georik muttered, painfully conscious of his nakedness.

"But it 'tis, Master," Mephistopheles insisted, honey sweet. "Dost thou not remember our pact? Protection and assistance till completion of thy sister's body, in exchange, only then, for thine soul." His dark eyes glittered like onyx. "I merely offer my services to that end."

"You need not remind me."

"All the pleasures of Sodom and Gomorrah," the devil continued, robes swirling to embrace his lean, mesmerizing figure, "of succubi long-legged and sultry, or perhaps…another shape thou desirest." A shiver raced up Georik's spine as breath hot as hellfire flickered across the nape of his neck. Such heat, such intolerable_craving_ raced through his chest like fever. Sensing weakness, Mephistopheles ran a red, lacquered nail along his Master's skin. "Strange flesh is not foreign to thee…" he whispered in the shell of one ear.

Somewhere in the back of Georik's mind, Lillith splayed nude before him, her eyes the Queen of Hell's.

"Begone, demon!"

With all the strength in his body, he tore away from Mephistopheles' grasp, limbs shaking from fear and fury. It was all he could muster to meet the devil's gaze with a glare, as he reached for his scabbard (useless as it was against a creature of hell) on the floor.

But Mephistopheles drew away of his own accord. "As thou wishest…" he mock-bowed, hiding a smile behind ruffled sleeves. "Georik Zaberisk."

Chuckling, the black-winged devil faded into the darkness from whence he came, though Georik could still sense his presence lingering like a whisper in the mist.

_If ever there were an inopportune time for devils – !_

Shoving the unnerving conversation aside, he re-gripped the ingredient bottle and closed his eyes again. Whatever lies Mephistopheles might tell, their pact remained the same; no harm could befall his sister so long as he relinquished his soul in exchange. It was only time that he wasted worrying.

Georik cast his mind back through memory, trying to recall a pleasant image of youth that might…hasten things along. There were the afternoons exploring Kamazene with Lillith, sharing a handful of candies from the shop. The summer times in the countryside, dozing beneath the stars after a race through the woods bareback. And then, school, where he had met his dearest friends, Mikhail and St. Germant at the annual festival…

A flicker of caramel colored his vision suddenly.

Yes, the annual scholars' festival, where intelligentsia from all over Hardland gathered to share the fruits of their research, the magnificent sculptures and intricate mechanical designs that so entranced the public. Mikhail had soon grown bored of the whole affair, trotting off instead to watch the jousting tournament, but Georik lingered on by the medicines exhibit, hoping to catch a glimpse of his father. And that was when –

"_Ahh, excuse me!" _

_Georik turned just in time to avoid a full-on collision with the sandy-haired boy. _

"_I'm so sorry, I was clumsy, I didn't see where I was going – " The boy offered apologies profusely, as he fumbled with his glasses. He finally adjusted them on his face again and looked up, surprised to see a youth his own age staring back at him. "Are you…are you alright?" he asked._

_Georik reached out a hand to steady the other. "I'm fine." He shrugged. He'd gotten used to avoiding people rushing about mid-festival. "You should take the back alley if you're going to get anywhere in this crowd."_

"_Oh, thank you." Pausing, the other squinted, seemed to sense some recognition. "You must be…"_

"_Georik Zaberisk," he answered automatically. Everyone knew his father. "And you're?"_

"_Me?" The boy looked genuinely surprised to be asked, but then broke into a smile, hands clasping. "I'm Germant. Apprentice mechanical engineer, Germant Kassel."_

Georik opened his eyes again to the dim light of the laboratory. That was the day it happened. The day he decided to become a doctor. The shock, the elation, the warm smile from his friend beneath toffee-toned eyes…

He bit his lip harshly, trying to banish the thought.

No, that was just…foolishness. Childhood play. For all his incessant teasing, he could never bear to – to tarnish his dearest friendship with these thoughts, desires, despite their odd familiarity like a fine pomace brandy aged in his father's cellars.

But nevertheless, an insidious voice in the back of his mind whispered,

_It is but a fantasy. A fantasy for a noble cause. Do you not wish to save Lillith?...To bring a smile back to her lips?_

Looking down, Georik felt the heat rise on his face and various other parts of his body. So it was to be, regardless of his guilt. For the sake of his beloved sister, all that she had suffered, he would let his closely guarded desires slip just this once…to give her happiness.

…_And for her fiancé, as well…_

"My sincerest apologies, dear friend," Georik whispered hoarsely, abandoning himself to his body's fervid yearnings.

St. Germant.

Ger…mant…

There was a time when he was 15, still innocent of the world after his parents passed on, when the dreams came…every boy's fantasy. Decadent visions of lust that served to set the loins on fire, heated whispers and flushed skin. By then, he had studied enough medicine to know them for what they were (unlike poor Mikhail, who spent nigh a week in confession praying), and he thought little of it except as a pleasant diversion – a small allowance to be thankful for, given the tragic circumstances at the time. But nevertheless, something…something bothered him, would not leave him about that image in his head. And as these nights became more frequent, he slowly understood the truth.

The one who aroused such burning desires in him was none other than his companion from childhood, Germant Kassel.

As his face flushed at the memory, Georik quickened his strokes, coaxing his rapidly stiffening member erect.

Yes, it was like a sickness, and when he hovered on the edge of sleep, he could just maneuver his imaginings the way he wanted. With hands sliding through slender fingers, silk hair, undoing the cravat that hid so maddeningly the naked skin of his throat…and then tugging that collar free, so he could replace it with his lips, taste the wine of his desires…

He wanted to – he wanted to see St. Germant blush again, cheeks filling with effulgent pink like the Japanese roses that adorned Lilith's garden. He wanted to see that color deepen and turn red, see the lighthearted smile turn into a moan of ecstasy, see caramel…melted caramel…caramel eyes melting out of the sheer heat of his cravings and finally, mesmerizingly, giving in as he always hoped they would.

Vaguely, Georik heard the ingredient bottle clatter onto the stone floor, but by now, he could not break out of the fantasy even if he wanted to.

His hair slicked back with sweat, black glistening on black, teeth clenched tight to hold back the rapid thundering of his heart, all he could feel was the embrace. Germant's naked body pressed against his own, threading upwards, fingers laced behind his neck, caught between the bed sheets and Georik's own heaving, wet manhood. Everything of his, abandoned in that single gasp. The glasses that fell, exposing startled vulnerability. They were writhing together, inside one another, every moan driving him just a little mad, and Germant paused but a second before tightening in climax, his lips – his breath – his every fiber imploring for more…ever more. Ever more of Georik's radiant soul.

…_Soul?!_

Suddenly, his eyes snapped wide to the sight of leering lips beneath twin black horns, settled between his legs like some poisonous snake. The devil looked up at him with all the satisfaction of a meal well-taken, sin written across his face, and forked his tongue about Georik's manhood to lick up the last drops of seed before unraveling himself from his Master's legs. An absurd decorum followed him as he dabbed at the edge of his mouth with a sleeve.

" 'Twas better than thou imagined it, Master." Mephistopheles smirked.

Swearing, Georik slashed a blade at the laughing demon, even as his strength buckled within him.

"You broke…our pact!" he yelled, furious.

"I was fulfilling its conditions." Mephistopheles avoided the sword as easily as if it did not exist, and tossed something gleaming and glass at Georik. It landed on his lap as he collapsed, drained, into the chair.

A bottle. Warm. Filled with fresh seed.

…His seed.

Georik lifted his head just in time to watch the devil disappear in a flap of leather wings and crimson.

"The last ingredient, Georik Zaberisk," a voice echoed in his mind. "Then, thy soul shall be mine."

Sitting there, naked and alone, he wondered if Mephistopheles hadn't stolen it already.


End file.
